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CB250T. For the general public, it’s a meaningless jumble of letters and numbers but the motorcycle aficionados recognise it, those who know bikes, the ones who can match the model by its headlight shape alone, or tire tread or engine sound.
Babubabu
The putter of the small bike’s engine under him could have been a cat’s purr for how well it works to sooth the rider and put him at ease. Usually. Today, Sano Manjiro vibrates with impatience as he sits upon the seat, idling at the light. One sneakered set of toes is on the gritty pavement for balance but the heel is bouncing, keeping a beat. Come on come on come on come on, he whispers under his breath. The sun is at the wrong angle for comfort. The solar flares of reflected light from mirrors and chrome are dazzling his vision, leaving lit rhombus imprints atop of what his dark eyes would otherwise see. It’s distracting and he squeezes his eyes shut, but the bright spectres haunt the darkness, too.
The signal changes and he can move with the flow again so he weaves his way into every gap he can find between cars. He advances toward his destination in fits and starts, hating every delay. Luck is against him and the weekend congestion of shoppers and tourists who have their own places to be instead of here. And there, at the corner of the next block, a sudden collision leaves motorists with no choice but to change lanes and stare as the two drivers involved leave their cars, trade information, inspect the damage, and wait for police.
He spots an opportunity to get ahead, an alternative path. He hops the sidewalk and aims for the enviable detour for him and his babu, a narrow alley between businesses.
“Watch the mirrors.” His older brother chides him from the past, from a memory of a different day, a younger day. “My CB250T is a lot faster than your moped, Mikey. You don’t have a licence to be driving, either. The last thing we need is an accident.”
***
The wind pressure increased on his face as his speed increased. The cool intensity made his blond hair wave like streamers. His brother would have to angle his head to one side in order to avoid the wild strands, his shorter dark locks likewise ruffled into a wilder hairstyle.
Shinichiro, ten years older, stayed silent as Mikey manoeuvred around the moving obstacles, braking, shifting gears, fitting them into the tiniest of spaces. The street they practised on wasn’t busy that evening, but busy enough to leave Shin tense with anxiety, his hands tight and pinching around Mikey’s narrow waist. Shin shouted in his ear after a near miss, “Don’t be reckless!”
All Mikey felt was the bliss of controlling the machine by himself. He’d ridden behind his brother so many times but now he felt the true freedom of the bike, the promise of speed and adventure. He could almost envision what his future would be like if he had a bike like Shin’s. Mikey laughed at the idea of it and his heart overflowed with joy.
***
His friend, Ryuguji Ken is still astride his Zephyr when Mikey rolls up beside the other motorcycle and parks. It is clear from his expression and posture that he’s been waiting a while and is unimpressed with Mikey’s late arrival. The other boy’s arms are crossed over his black and white patterned shirt, one of many he owns, a trademark look of sorts. It’s one of three ways that people know he’s Draken. The second standard is the gold braid of hair that rests against the back of his neck, the rest of his hair is shaved away to advertise the third, the dragon tattoo emblazoned on his shaved skull.
“Thanks for coming, Ken-chin,” Mikey says as he shuts off the bike.
“You say it like I had a choice in the matter. Did I?” Draken’s eyes narrow with some scorn.
Mikey ignores his ire, his focus is on his objective. “Let’s go, Ken-chin.”
Mikey doesn’t wait to see if Draken follows his snapped, impatient edict. He simply runs, barging his way through a group of pedestrians without apology, and shoves his way across the threshold of the small shop. The bells above the glass door jingle merrily with his entrance, as if celebrating.
Mikey feels like celebrating. His favourite treat is on sale!
According to the whiteboard sign by the woven basket, the Two for One Special! for taiyaki is only running “while supplies last,” and is “limited to four per customer.” Mikey is undeterred. He throws more than half of the available stock in Draken’s direction, him having larger hands to carry them, and drops the rest in a pouch he makes out of the front of his white t-shirt. Mikey waits his turn in line, ready to greet the cashier with an innocent and charming smile.
“There’s a purchase limit on these, you know,” the young cashier grouses at the boys, pointing back at the whiteboard sign set beside the basket of taiyaki they have emptied. Then she sighs. The whiteboard is what it is, white and boring to look at. There is no limit announcement written on it.
She spies the reddish stains on Draken’s fingers and palm as he empties his hands, a literal red-handed culprit in the mystery of the missing message. Draken produces his own innocent grin and the cashier melts in defeat, the latest in a line of victims of Draken’s good looks and charm.
“Ah, well. Like it matters.” She reads out the price they’ll have to pay for their greedy behaviour and Mikey and Draken dig through the pockets of their cargo pants for their change. It’s not enough to buy all the pastries. The cashier removes eight packets from their heap and takes their money, too.
After they thank her, Draken carries the bag out but offers it to Mikey when they return to their bikes.
“Thanks, Ken-chin. I mean it.” Mikey takes the bag Draken proffers and rips the plastic wrap off one of the snacks, devouring the fish-shaped treat in seconds, pocketing the refuse to throw out later. The rest of the bag gets tucked into a carryall compartment on the side of his bike, usually intended for a small array of tools or emergency needs. Snacks count as an emergency when it comes to Mikey.
He smiles to himself as he crouches by the bike, snapping the lid down and relatching it. “He always kept a few taiyaki packets in the bike’s emergency kit for the days I’d go riding with him. It doesn’t feel right to be taking the babu anywhere if I don’t have a bag of them with me. Even if I have no reason to dig into it, I just like having it there, you know?” Mikey feels a bit silly as he describes this little memorial to his brother to his best friend, but Draken is the kind of friend who understands.
“It’s cool, Mikey. Glad I could help.”
Nothing more needs saying as they both hop onto their bikes. Draken starts the Zephyr he scrimped and saved for and Mikey starts his inheritance, the bike Shin built out of scraps he’d found overseas and threw all his time, money, and life into finishing. They put their bikes in gear and drive away.
***
“Those dumb things are going to give you the worst stomach ache, Mikey,” Shin warns him on their way to the beach. Shin has taken the backseat for this trip, to monitor how Mikey will manage on a faster strip of road. They’d stopped at a shop near their house before leaving so Shin could purchase and Mikey could devour more of his favourite snack once they got where they were headed.
“I can poop in the ocean. The bream do, after all.”
“You want me to tell you that story again? About the fisherman?”
“Yeah. When we get there.”
“When we get there.”